


leave the car running (I'm not ready to go)

by jewishfitz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, POV Martin Blackwood, Road Trips, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), as written by someone who doesn't know how to drive, minor unsafe driving practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewishfitz/pseuds/jewishfitz
Summary: Taking care of people—of yourself, of others—is, like any other skill, something that requires practice.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 142





	leave the car running (I'm not ready to go)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [@thirteenthdyke](https://thirteenthdyke.tumblr.com/), who requested jonmartin + “You’re important too.”
> 
> I’ve been re-reading a lot of jm safehouse fic recently because, you know, *gestures at everything*. So, I thought it would be fun to revisit that period of canon! Because you can never have too many safehouse fics imo.
> 
> Title is from Hurt Less by Julien Baker, which I have listened to [REDACTED] times in the past 24 hours. Unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> cw: minor unsafe driving practices

They rush into the car like a hurricane, all nervous energy, full-tilt 90 mile-an-hour heartbeats, and when they settle it feels less like an ending—a return to peace—and more like the eye of the storm.

This is not Martin’s car. It’s not Jon’s car, either, as far as Martin knows. Regardless, the interior is incongruent enough with their personalities to make those facts obvious. Filled with useless knick-knacks and covered in kitschy bumper stickers, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing either of them would own, even if they hadn’t been functionally trapped by eldritch horrors for the past two years.

Martin doesn’t know whose car this is, but, admittedly, he’s kind of lost the plot in the past few hours. He knows they’ve been places, done things, since the Lonely, but it’s all a bit hazy. So much nothing followed by so much _everything_ tends to do that to a person. He throws a questioning glance over at Jon, who’s checking their gas levels.

Jon looks up, a confused expression passing across his face like a tropical wind. “What?”

“Whose–” Martin coughs, voice hoarse from disuse. “Whose car is this, exactly?”

“Oh! Um, Basira’s, I think?” He gives Martin a weak shrug. “A specially designated getaway vehicle. Something like that.”

Martin nods, because what else can he do? When did he become the kind of person who needs a getaway car? How did that happen without him noticing?

“So that's what we're doing, then? Getting away?”

Jon nods distractedly, fiddling with the small ring of keys that has appeared in his hand at some point. “Apparently so. Daisy has a house, up in Scotland. We should be safe there, for now at least.”

Martin should say something, anything, to get himself out of this situation. He doesn’t need to run away, not really. Jon’s the one who’s been accused of murder once before, not him. He’s just a regular old employee, as far as anyone with the police is concerned. Wrong place wrong time and all that. Martin is just adding another unnecessary target to the already long list of targets on Jon’s back.

He doesn’t say anything, though; because, shameful as it is, Martin Blackwood does not want to be alone anymore. What he wants is to follow Jon for as long as he can, as long as Jon will let him. So he’ll be selfish, just this once. Quite frankly, he’s earned it.

“Martin?” Jon is looking at him, undisguised concern written in his features. Martin takes a moment—selfish again—to take him in. Unkempt dark hair shot through with grey, hanging loose well past his shoulders. Circular scars, faded but not entirely gone, scattered like raindrops across his skin. The thin line at his throat. His eyes, always intense, always beautiful, focused on Martin and only Martin.

Martin blinks, and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Jon looks skeptical, but doesn’t push it. He faces forward, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Martin has a thought, and lets out a quiet, raw laugh before he can stop himself.

Jon looks at him like he’s hung the moon, before schooling his features into a far more appropriate expression of warm annoyance. “What?”

Martin shakes his head, and is surprised to find that he is smiling, faintly. “It’s just, I dunno– Jonathan Sims, getaway driver.”

Jon scowls, but there’s a humor to it that was never there in the old days (“The old days”? When had he started thinking of three years ago as “the old days”?). “I could be one, you know- a getaway driver.”

“Sure,” Martin says, making the indulgence in his voice obvious. “And I could be a concert pianist, if I had the inclination.”

“Well,” says Jon, all theatrical exasperation. “If you don’t have anymore cutting remarks about my qualifications, I suggest we hit the road.”

Martin mimes zipping his lips, and Jon rolls his eyes before starting the car.

This doesn’t feel real, Martin thinks as he fiddles with the loose threads on the sleeve of his sweater. None of it feels real, but somehow it also all feels _too_ real. Martin turns his gaze to the city outside his window, which scrolls past him like desaturated newsreel footage. 

He suddenly feels the exhaustion that adrenaline has been keeping at bay for the past few hours set in. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he turns back to Jon. “We’ll switch at some point, yeah?”

Jon sneaks a glance at him before his eyes snap back to the road. “Don’t worry about that. Just get some sleep.”

Martin shakes his head. He’s been selfish about other things, but he won’t be selfish about this. He can’t. “Promise you’ll wake me to switch at some point.”

Jon is quiet, and for a moment Martin worries that he’s done something wrong, that he’s overstepped in some small and imperceptible way.

But then Jon smiles, and it’s got a quality to it that Martin has never seen before, something warm and content that makes Martin’s insides stumble like a deer learning to walk. Martin didn’t know that was something he could still feel, a buried part of himself he didn’t think he still had access to.

“Ok,” Jon says. “Promise.” His voice is soft, a quality Martin would never have ascribed to the Jon of the old days. But hey, they’ve both changed quite a lot recently. Martin doesn’t think that the Martin of the old days could have even made it this far.

Martin nods. “Good.” He turns back to the window, and promptly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Seat belt.”

Stupid as it is, it’s the first thing that pops into Martin’s head when he wakes.

Jon spares a glance his way. “What?”

Martin sits up, wincing at the pain that has now made a home near the base of his neck. “Seat belt, Jon.” He gestures at him.

“Oh,” Jon says, looking down at himself. “I, uh- I guess I forgot. Hadn’t noticed.”

Martin hums noncommittally. “Forgot?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t drive much. Haven’t, uh- haven’t really needed to remember? Plus, you know–” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “Anyways! Lovely scenery out here. We should be at Daisy’s in just a few more hours.”

Martin may be sleepy, but he’s awake enough to not take that bait. “No, Jon, I don’t know.”

Jon sighs. “I guess- I mean, there’s really no need? I can’t exactly be killed, you know.”

“Jonathan Sims,” Martin says, an unexpected harshness in his voice. “You are _not_ using your-” He makes a frustrated noise. _"_ _Perceived monstrosity_ as an excuse to put yourself in needless danger.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, apparently thinks better of it, and just nods instead. “I’ll pull over up ahead.”

The road they’re on is not entirely deserted, but it's out-of-the-way enough that pulling over isn’t much trouble. Jon shuts off the car and dutifully buckles his seatbelt. “There,” he says, hands coming back up to grip the steering wheel. “Anything else?” There’s a defensiveness to his posture, something hunched and hurt, that Martin doesn’t fail to notice it.

Martin exhales slowly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all- it's just-” There’s that frustrated noise again, coming out of his throat instead of the words that he can’t quite seem to organize. He tips his head back against his seat’s headrest, and closes his eyes. Selfish again. “I care about you. An awful lot, really. Just- take care of yourself, yeah? You’re- you’re important to me, Jon.”

He keeps his eyes closed, because maybe if he shuts them for long enough this moment will reset like a scene in a play and he can try again, try again, try again–

He feels a hand on his arm and his eyes fly open. Jon is looking at him with another storm cloud of emotion roiling across his features, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times before he speaks. “I- Thank you. I’m, um- I’m not very good at the whole ‘self-care’ thing, but I’ll try my best.” He squeezes Martin’s arm, briefly, and the touch makes Martin's head swim pathetically.

The moment’s almost passed when Jon speaks again. “It’s just- you’re important, too. You know that, right? You’re important to me.”

The truth is that he does know that, but only in a detached, academic sort of way. He’s important in the way that all things are important, in sense. He wants to believe Jon, but part of him also rails against any form of comfort, screams _LIAR!_ at all kind words.

But Martin Blackwood is selfish. Martin Blackwood does not want to be alone. Jon has many faults, but dishonesty has never been one of them. He’s a bad liar, so how could he lie about something like this? Lying never freed anybody from the Lonely.

Martin nods, and slowly places his hand on top of Jon’s where it rests on his arm. He does not miss Jon’s sharp intake of breath at the contact. “I know.” He gives Jon a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Jon smiles back. “Not a problem.”

Jon’s looking up at him, their minor height difference necessitating a certain tilt of his head and- and it’s _lovely_ and Martin feels like a ship locked into a current or a moth circling a flame or–

They stay like that for a beat too long, air turning charged in a way Martin isn’t quite ready to face, not right now. He sighs, tearing his gaze away. “We better, um- We better get going if we want to make it to Daisy’s before sundown.”

Jon pauses before returning his hand to the wheel. Martin tries not to mourn the absence of its warmth.

* * *

They stop for lunch after another hour. It’s barely out of the way, barely more than a gas station with an attached gift shop, but beggars can’t be choosers and Martin is, for the first time in a long time, actually hungry.

They order their prepackaged sandwiches and sit on one of the ancient looking plastic picnic benches and when Jon leans over to steal one of Martin’s crisps he thinks he might actually burst into tears because it is all so terribly domestic. 

Martin's heart feels like a mug of hot tea, overflowing and spilling warmth whenever he moves. It’s a lovely feeling, utterly alien when compared to the distant fogginess of the last few months. It’s still not easy, not exactly. What was easy was The Lonely, slipping in and out of existence as simple as breathing. Being with Jon—being selfish—is hard, but unquestionably worth it, at least so far.

They spend a minute just watching the hills and fields around them before walking back to the car. Martin likes this side of Jon; windswept and a little bit flushed, all because Martin had mentioned that “brooding in nature” was a good look for him. Jon had spluttered, before firmly returning his gaze to the horizon, barely able to keep the quirk of a grin out of his lips. Martin thinks he likes having the power to make Jon splutter. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Jon lets him take over driving, complaining more out of principle than of any real objection, and before they know it they’re back on the road.

It takes a while for Martin to notice how intently Jon is focusing on the scenery outside the car. He’s been keeping quiet, waiting to see if Jon falls asleep, but he doesn’t. He must have been awake for over 24 hours, and he’s still looking out the window with a laser-like focus.

The Martin Blackwood of the old days would worry in silence. The Martin Blackwood of now says, quietly, “are you alright?”

Jon startles and looks over at him, questioningly. “Yes?”

“Sorry, it’s just- you’re not tired?”

Jon frowns, momentarily. “I don’t- I don’t think so, no.” He sighs. “If I’m honest, the adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off yet.”

Martin hums in acknowledgement. He can’t relate, but he understands. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jon shrugs. “It’s fine. Not much I can do about it.”

Martin drums his fingers against the wheel. “Can we- can we talk?”

“About…?”

“Anything. I, um-” He shakes his head, clearing the invisible fog. “I don’t really like quiet all that much anymore.” He chuckles mirthlessly.

“Ok,” Jon says, pausing to think. “What do you know about dark matter?”

“Um, virtually nothing.”

“It’s fascinating. It’s like-” he turns to face Martin, his whole posture opening up. “You can calculate the mass of anything based on its rotational speed, and at some point in the past I-don’t-know-how many years, some astrophysicists realized that, according to their calculations, the galaxy should be—needs to be—a lot more massive than it appears. So they came up with dark matter, a name for all the material we _know_ needs to be there but we just can’t see. We have no idea what it is, and yet there’s more of it out there in the universe than there is _normal_ matter. And that’s not even getting into dark energy.”

“Do you, um–” Martin has been trying very hard to keep his eyes on the road. “Do you know all that or do you _know_ all that?”

“I- well-” Jon looks a tad embarrassed. “That’s all me. I read a lot.” He sighs. “Or, at least, I used to. Back before–” He gestures vaguely. “Still, it was useful for the whole Manuela Dominguez business.”

Martin hums in acknowledgment. “You have a nice voice. You know that, right?”

Jon falters, blinking, but he’s back in a second. “Yes, that’s actually why Magnus hired me.”

Martin laughs, and already it sounds more full—more _real—_ than it did just a few hours ago. “Of course, of course.”

Jon is laughing too, and Martin thinks it might be the best sound he’s ever heard.

Jon starts fiddling with the ring of keys again. “You have a nice voice too, you know.” Martin scoffs, but Jon continues. “I mean it! It’s… It’s comforting.”

And Martin smiles at that, because Jon doesn’t lie, because Jon think he’s important, because they’ve wasted so much time and now they’re together and as safe as they ever will be and suddenly everything else feels so small and far away and–

“I love you.”

Half of Martin expects Jon to freeze up, demand they pull over, and make Martin walk all the way back to London. But Jon just blinks, and a smile blooms on his face like a flower, like the sun.

“Really?” His voice is quiet.

Martin laughs again. It gets easier every time. “Of course. Always.”

Martin’s eyes are on the road, but he can hear the smile in Jon’s voice when he speaks. “Okay then.”

There’s a long pause before Jon speaks again. “I love you too, if you didn’t know already.”

Martin knew, of course he knew, but the words still hit him like something physical, like a lightning strike, like a truck. “Thank you. For, um- For everything.”

Jon is still smiling. “Again, not a problem.”

* * *

The sun is just beginning to set when they arrive at the safe house. It’s a quaint, hidden thing; white clapboards and a rocky driveway and a distinctly non-supernatural front door. Martin parks the car, but doesn’t move to leave.

“Hey,” Jon says, placing a tentative hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Everything alright?”

Martin sighs. “It’s just, I don’t know- when we step out of this car it’ll be real, you know? No more turning around, no more going back. It’ll be- It’ll be real.”

Jon begins absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back forth across Martin’s collarbone, and Martin makes a valiant effort not to melt into the touch. “Well, I mean, staying in the car doesn’t make it _not_ real.”

“I think it’s just–” Martin sighs. “The car is a known. Once we step out of this vehicle everything–” He gestures with the hand closest to the door. “Everything is unknown.”

“You know,” Jon says, clearly imitating himself from the old days. “I think that you’ve built your argument on a logical fallacy here.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Jon’s voice softens. “Not everything that’s unknown is bad. It’s just unknown. It could be bad, yes, but it could also be quite good.” Jon shrugs. “You don’t know.”

Martin smiles, and Jon smiles back, and there they are, in a getaway car in Scotland. Two people on the verge of something unknown but not necessarily bad.

They get out of the car, haul their bags through the front door, and the unknown swallows them whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@nojoyinmudville](https://nojoyinmudville.tumblr.com/) for more nonsense! I’m currently in the process of outlining/drafting a much longer fic (it's a hollywood au!) so follow me if you wanna stay updated on all that.


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